“She no longer hopes,” thought I, and already felt repaid for my trouble.
“This is a very pretty article you have brought me,” said she with something of the unrestrained love of art which she undoubtedly possessed, showing itself through all her languor. “Where did it come from, and what recommendations have you, to prove it is an honest sale you offer me?”
“None,” returned I, ignoring with a reassuring smile the first question, “except that I should not be afraid if all the police in New York knew I was here with this fine placque for sale.”
She gave a shrug of her proud shoulder that bespoke the French Countess and softly ran her finger round the edge of the placque.
“I don’t need anything more of this kind,” said she languidly; “besides,” and she set it down with a fretful air, “I am in no mood to buy this afternoon.” Then shortly, “What do you ask for it?”
I named a fabulous price.
She started and cast me a keen glance. “You had better take it to someone else; I have no money to throw away.”
With a hesitating hand I lifted the placque towards the basket. “I would very much like to sell it to you,” said I. “Perhaps—”
Just then a lady’s fluttering voice rose from the room beyond inquiring for the Countess, and hurriedly taking the placque from my hand with an impulsive “O there’s Amy,” she passed into the adjoining apartment, leaving the door open behind her.
I saw a quick interchange of greetings between her and a fashionably dressed lady, then they withdrew to one side with the ornament I had brought, evidently consulting in regard to its merits. Now was my time. The book in which she had placed the letter she had been writing lay on the table right before me, not two inches from my hand. I had only to throw back the cover and my curiosity would be satisfied. Taking advantage of a moment when their backs were both turned, I pressed open the book with a careful hand, and with one eye on them and one on the sheet before me, managed to read these words:—
My Dearest Cecilia.
I have tried in vain to match the sample you sent me at Stewart’s, Arnold’s and McCreery’s. If you still insist upon making up the dress in the way you propose, I will see what Madame Dudevant can do for us, though I cannot but advise you to alter your plans and make the darker shade of velvet do. I went to the Cary reception last night and met Lulu Chittenden. She has actually grown old, but was as lively as ever. She created a great stir in Paris when she was there; but a husband who comes home two o’clock in the morning with bleared eyes and empty pockets, is not conducive to the preservation of a woman’s beauty. How she manages to retain her spirits I cannot imagine. You ask me news of cousin Holman. I meet him occasionally and he looks well, but has grown into the most sombre man you ever saw. In regard to certain hopes of which you have sometimes made mention, let me assure you they are no longer practicable. He has done what—
Here the conversation ceased in the other room, the Countess made a movement of advance and I closed the book with an inward groan over my ill-luck.
“It is very pretty,” said she with a weary air; “but as I remarked before, I am not in the buying mood. If you will take half you mention, I may consider the subject, but—”
“Pardon me, Madame,” I interrupted, being in no wise anxious to leave the placque behind me, “I have been considering the matter and I hold to my original price. Mr. Blake of Second Avenue may give it to me if you do not.”
“Mr. Blake!” She eyed me suspiciously. “Do you sell to him?”
“I sell to anyone I can,” replied I; “and as he has an artist’s eye for such things—”
Her brows knitted and she turned away. “I do not want it;” said she, “sell it to whom you please.”
I took up the placque and left the room.
IX
A Few Golden Hairs
When a few days from that I made my appearance before Mr. Gryce, it was to find him looking somewhat sober. “Those Schoenmakers,” said he, “are making a deal of trouble. It seems they escaped the fellows up north and are now somewhere in this city, but where—”
An expressive gesture finished the sentence.
“Is that so?” exclaimed I. “Then we are sure to nab them. Given time and a pair of low, restless German thieves, I will wager anything, our hands will be upon them before the month is over. I only hope, when we do come across them, it will not be to find their betters too much mixed up with their devilish practices.” And I related to him what Fanny had told me a few evenings before.
“The coil is tightening,” said he. “What the end will be I don’t know. Crime, said she? I wish I knew in what blind hole of the earth that girl we are after lies hidden.”
As if in answer to this wish the door opened and one of our men came in with a letter in his hand. “Ha!” exclaimed Mr. Gryce, after he had perused it, “look at that.”
I took the letter from his hand and read:
The dead body of a girl such as you describe
